“You’re so beautiful” said the Damara man, this black Namibian man, as he smiled at me. “Thank you, you too, “ I replied rather flattered, not knowing what to say. Just a few moments later I gave him a hug and he embraced me, his arms clutching at my torso the way a woman hugs. I could tell that he was of my persuasion. He wore tight blue genes and I could see red, chapped nailpolish on his toes that protruded from his sandals. It was a summer morning that we met, so we both wore sandals. I needed to encourage him, he had walked all this way from Okandja park just to where we stood in KleinWindhoek. He was searching for donations.
“Why do are looking for donations” I yelled behind him as he walked away. He turned and smiled “For what are the donations?” I ask again and he approaches me. I came to understand that it was for his Church “ Paulus //Gowaseb” in Okahandja Park. That place is a shanty town on the edge of Windhoek, I think to myself. And this gay man goes there? I was not certain of whether he was gay. He may have been transgender or perhaps bisexual. But from the way he spoke English and his whole demeanor, he fit the mould a Damara gay – the stereotypical black Namibian man. They needed donations for a trip to Swakopmund on Christmas day – just over one week away. “How do I know this is a real Church and you are not just collecting for yourself?” I interrogated, but with a smile on my face. “That is why I have this cellphone,” he said holding an outdated green screen phone. “You can call this number” he said pointing to a name of a donor – some man with a German sounding name – and a landline number. He tried to explain to me his reasoning, but I could tell from the way he spoke in spurts – starting and stopping – that the problem was English. So I asked him in Afrikaans and he gave me quite believable explanation. I barely understood it, because I bet he used the Afrikaans words for “trutworthiness” and “accountability”, which I do not remember right now.
I cannot even remember this man’s name. He was no older than 25 and he had gone to Church that day in Okahandja park. Thereafter, he promptly walked more fifteen kilometers at least from Okahandja park – on the Western outskirts of our city – to the eastern suburb of Klein Windhoek. Klein Windhoek is like the upper east side of New York city in the sense that people that high flying financially live there. He was not alone, there a girl with him, but she stood a little ahead of us, close to the Nandos take away. “…She has the pen..” he answered when I asked him if I could sign my name on the sponshorship form..” but I told him to not bother with that. What was two dollars anyway? To me there was just change, but I am sure to him they meant much.
“Not even one dollar” he uttered with a touch of desperation, after I said “no” to his request for donations. I was reading my newspaper on the corner of the service station and why did he have to come up to me? Just another one of those skelm beggars. But wait, I see from the sway in his stride and the contour of his legs inside those jeans that this man is moffie, just like me! Moffies don’t cheat! So I decided I to run after him and find out more about these donations he wants.
Earlier that Sunday morning I had just come from Stefanuschirche. I spoke with the woman pastor or priest, as a man from the Church told me earlier. “When she is in the service, she is a priest and I guess when she comes out she is a pastor.” He explained when I asked him about the Church. Does this women actually play two gender roles during and after the service or what exactly did this man mean? Perhaps in German they have two different words to describe a clergy(wo)man during and after the service.
This woman was very much like a priest and I understood what she was doing, even though she recited in German. As she went through the motions of holding up the small white circle bread body of Christ, she uttered German words that filled the room. Her voice was most soothing to listen to. Unusually, she made German so peaceful, the words coming out in mellifluous streams, with zzzs and kks and rrs that were soft and non militarized. So here I am in this Church and I realize that life is beautiful. The room is beautiful in its entire gay splendor. Purple and red smoke intermingled on the walls and before us was an image of Christ on the cross in a blue green hue. Him on the cross on red brown hill, while his spirit like image in warm yellow hues that meld into the warmth of a sunset looks straight at us.The whole room exudes soothing cool colors like the freshness of her German words. German is cold and really refreshing. Who says that just because I had all planned out – to go to Spain or France next year and study in those languages was God’s Will. Oh my Jesus, let your will be done. What if I were to learn German?
I came to the Stefanuschirche in search of a man. I heard that this was an open minded Church from my gay friend Fanni Dorling – a choirmaster – and I believed him. When I entered and found only a handful of people, most of them old women with just one young, albeit, straight couple, I knew I would find my man today. But this Churched was definitely for us queers, just by looking at the people who led the service – three women clad in white and blue priest like attire. Well, might as well stay and see what I can discover.
No comments:
Post a Comment